Mirror, Mirror

by Nomelon

~~~

The closer they get to the end, the worse it gets. Dean's year has broken down so quickly into months and weeks and days; they should be making the most of their time together, but instead they're wasting it arguing. Now that Sam has got Dean to drop the bravado and start acting more like himself, all the stupid brother shit has started right back up again. Sam amps up the annoying put-upon little brother routine while Dean milks the hell out of his role as eternal tormentor.

The funny thing is Sam can't quite figure out why.

For a while there, things had been good between them. Things had been better maybe than they'd ever been, but now, when time is precious, when every second that passes is one step closer to the end, it's like they can't help themselves. Like time itself is a wedge being driven between them. Like every word, every gesture, is an invitation to argument.

Dean's no slouch when it comes to pissing Sam off, but by the same token, Sam knows just how to get under Dean's skin, pushing and pushing until Dean snaps. Over the years Sam's perfected it into an art form, sometimes going past the point of self-preservation, way past the point when anyone else would back down. Sam can count on one hand the number of times they've ever really gone at it, and none of those in the last year or two, but he knows without a shred of false modesty how good they are at fighting. They're hunters. It's ingrained; part of who they are, of what they do. Werewolves, vampires, demons, all manner of supernatural creatures, they've survived them all. Sam's even taken on a SWAT team single-handed and been the last man standing. He and Dean are good, damn good, and they know each other's moves, hard-earned knowledge, so when they fight it's like dancing. All give and take, blocked punches and reversed holds, everything fast and sharp and perfect because they know each other like nobody else does.

Yeah, it hurts like a bitch when they don't pull their punches; figuratively or literally, Sam's not sure which is worse. A bit of both maybe, but they're Winchesters. They can take it. They've built their whole lives around being able to take it. Raised like warriors, or so the story goes. And if fighting means they can clear the air then it's worth it.

Thing is though, Sam isn't willing to push it that far. He doesn't actually want to hurt Dean when there's so much pain already simmering just below the cracking surface, so they end up bickering instead. They bicker like bratty children over who gets which bed, over who takes up the most seat space in the Impala, over music choices and toothbrushes and ordering dinner and whose turn it is to do laundry and who just farted and who gets first shower.

When it gets really bad, the cracks open up a little. They argue about Dean's deal, and his point-blank refusal to look for a way out, even though Dean's fear is building, Sam knows it's there; it has to be eating Dean up inside.

They argue over Sam's determination to do whatever it takes to find a loophole, to work his way up the demon chain of command, or to ally himself with Ruby. Sam's given up on trying to sell Dean on the idea of working with her. Dean doesn't want to hear it. Sam's pretty sure Ruby tried slithering her way into Dean's good graces, but he's even more sure his brother didn't go for it. Dean told him about Ruby showing up outside their motel for a cosy little chat shortly after their run in with Tammi, but Sam knows he's not getting the full story. Dean's editing again to save Sam from the awful truth.

The last time Sam mentioned Ruby, it sent Dean into a funk so black it took days to pull him out. So Sam keeps his secrets, and in the end this just ends up making him feel worse.

It's three in the afternoon, sun low in the sky, dirty lace curtains the only thing hiding them from the world outside their motel room. He's been drinking Dean's cheap whiskey 'cause the flask was just sitting there, and because he doesn't know where the hell to go from here. They're in between hunts right now, and he just wanted a little time off for once. Sam hates how that's enough to make him feel guilty as hell, worse than pathetic, less than human.

He's holding a dirty hoodie in his hand that he knows he hasn't worn since the last time they did laundry, yet has somehow ended up smelling like Dean and stale beer, and he's yelling something at Dean about being messy and selfish and stupid.

Dean's holding his coffee in one hand. He got up late today, a little hungover, and he isn't all the way awake yet. He's listening carefully to everything Sam's saying, his eyes like chips of ice, his lips twisted into a flat, humourless little smirk, the one that signals imminent danger. It only makes Sam want to slap it right off his face.

Sam's chest is working overtime, his breath coming fast and heavy like he's breathing out smoke and fire. This has been building for days, their holding pattern steadily disintegrating, and Sam's so angry right now he can hardly see. It must be catching, because that's when Dean throws his coffee right across the room where it explodes in a huge brown starburst against the wall. In that split-second of distraction, Dean drives his shoulder into Sam's stomach, tackling him right to the floor.

It pushes all the breath out of Sam's body, but he rolls with it, instinct taking over, and he lands easy, flinching when Dean steals the upper hand. He expects punches because he can see violence in Dean's eyes, can see the way his hands are shaking, but they just seem to end up wrestling with one another. Just like when they were kids, messing around instead of really sparring, but there's intent to this; their struggle has bite. Sam doesn't really want to hurt Dean, not really. He can't imagine the fallout from even a simple vicious punch to Dean's jaw, like a door slamming closed, so this wrestling thing is good. There's no finesse here, but he can use it as an outlet. Use it to get Dean to shut up. Just shut the hell up for once in his goddamn life. Why can't he ever just close his stupid mouth and stop spewing out the same tired old Winchester bullshit that he's spent a lifetime shoving down Sam's throat?

They're both holding back, leading with their shoulders, their hips, hands grabbing and heavy, knees used to block and shove. Just impact. Just scuffle and movement and force and shut up, shut the hell up, you jerk. Why can't you just--? You shithead. Why do you always--? You bitch. You fucker. Fucking asshole.

And Sam's fine with that. With the scuffle and the shoving and the aggressive, bitter roughhousing. He knocks at the weak point on the inside of Dean's elbow, breaking Dean's hold, and flips them, pinning Dean down with all his weight. He grounds them with the press of his body and the sprawl of his limbs, gets one knee up and throws his leg over, pushing his hips down against Dean's thighs to hold him in place. Dean's still struggling, trying to twist his arms out of Sam's iron grip, trying to use the weak point where thumb meets fingertips around his wrists. So Sam just presses down harder, using his weight and gravity to his advantage.

Dean's still talking, endlessly bitching and complaining, spitting taunts and insults.

"That the best you got, Sammy? Is it? Come on, man. I taught you better than this. Better than this weak-kneed, college boy bullshit. You're not saving anyone with moves like this. Don't hold out on me 'cause you think you're gonna hurt me. Trust me, ain't gonna happen. Come on, show me what you got."

Sam can barely hear the words over the dull roar in his ears, but he still wants the noise to stop. He just wants Dean to give in. But Dean never stops, he never gives in.

Sam growls and, at a loss, he pushes his mouth into Dean's just to get him to shut the hell up.

Dean freezes, his whole body stiff as a board, his lips slack and stunned, and the only part of him that moves is his pulse leaping in his throat.

Sam realises, realises a second too late, that he has his mouth crushed against Dean's. That Dean's not fighting him anymore. Dean's just lying there, still and quiet, breathing little shuddery gasps into Sam's mouth.

Sam draws back slow, waits it out, his heart beating hard and fast behind his breastbone and in the hollow of his throat. He tries not to notice the way Dean's lower lip slides out from between his teeth, a soft little slick of flesh. Dean's eyes are wide, completely freaked, more inky-black than green right now, and he's looking at Sam like he's never seen him before.

Jesus, it really happened. It really just happened. Sam can't quite process it. He can't believe he had the balls to actually do it. He's still angry and way over the line into completely freaked the fuck out. It's all right there, the anger and confusion and heat and something else he can't quite name reflected back at him in Dean's eyes. He can't make sense of any of it. Can't process this at all.

Dean stares at him like he's too shocked to even speak. He just darts his tongue over his lips and tries to breathe, and there's one hell of a question wrapped up in that abortive little motion. A question Sam doesn't have an answer to. Sam flexes his hips like a question of his own, or an attempt at an answer. Just a little. He's not even sure if it's intentional.

He sees the exact moment when Dean's eyes flare in alarm. They're hard against each other. Really fucking hard and now they both know it.

They stare at each other, wide-eyed and stunned. They don't move, only taking little breaths, shallow and irregular. Dean mouths Sam's name, his lips working, but no sound comes out. Sam's glad. He doesn't want to hear anything Dean has to say right now. He can't help staring at Dean's mouth, but Dean's too busy having conversations in his head to notice. His eyebrows are moving and he's blinking rapidly, every emotion in the book displayed on his face, one after the other.

"Dean..." Sam says, and then there's nothing. No words, because Sam doesn't know what the hell to say either.

Dean's moving again, afraid and desperate, trying to buck Sam off with his entire body, but the press of bodies, the shuck of clothes, the chafe and rub of hot skin, it only makes things worse.

"Dean. Don't... I can't--"

Dean looks like he's in pain, like he's pleading for his life, and Sam hates it, the immediate urge to make it okay superseding any other thought processes.

"Dean..."

Dean licks his lips again, glances at Sam's mouth, and in that tiny moment, Sam knows that they're doomed.

He bends his head and kisses Dean. No mistaking it this time as anything other than a kiss, softer this time, like he's kissing a girl. Dean whimpers, but he goes with it. He actually opens his mouth and goes with it. The hot slide of mouths, Dean's tongue against his teeth, it's nearly Sam's undoing. His whole body tingles with awareness, his head and his stomach churning with it.

Sam lets go so he can fist Dean's shirt, and Dean doesn't use it as a chance to escape. Instead, he presses up against Sam, and he moans, this long, drawn-out, miserable sound that Sam's never heard from him before. Then Dean's fingers are lost in Sam's hair, tilting Sam's head how he wants it, his hold desperate and tight. Sam can't breathe, he can't think, because Dean's really good at this, he's awesome at this, and it's happening, it's really happening. Dean's fisting his hair, hard enough to hurt, and Sam's vaguely aware of the dull, faraway thud of Dean's booted heel on the floor.

It's enough to damn them, all want and tongue and unspoken things like Christ, this is so wrong, you're such a stupid bastard, your mouth, fucking perfect, look what you made me do, need you, never wanted so much, don't leave me, you don't ever get to leave me, look what you do to me, look what you do.

And Sam gets it. He does. They shouldn't, they really shouldn't be doing this. They shouldn't be feeling this, but they do, and they are. There's no way to pass this off as any kind of accident. This is deliberate as sin and they're both wrapped up in it.

Sam's face is hot, his lips are tingling, fluttering with his pulse, and he doesn't want to stop doing this crazy thing they're tangled up in. Dean is hot and hard against his stomach, and that's what Sam's focusing his attention on. That's what's making him keep going with this. He nips at the column of Dean's throat, trails his tongue down to the indiscriminate patch of skin where throat becomes shoulder, and he bites down, licking and sucking. Dean shifts restlessly under him, and grunts when Sam worries the muscle with his teeth and sucks hard at the pale skin.

Sam wants to be able to see this after they're done -- no matter how awful it might be, no matter how selfish or arrogant it is to mark Dean up like this -- he wants the proof. He wants those marks there, vivid and angry and pretty, to know that he didn't imagine this. To know that Dean let Sam put his mouth on him, that he was party to this.

Dean refuses to kiss him again. He keeps his head turned away, eyes screwed shut, cheek pressed to the carpet, his mouth open in a soundless, shocked little o. His hands are clenched on Sam's shoulders, hard enough that Sam can make out the individual press of fingers, and Dean's not letting up.

Sam slides his hands up under Dean's shirt, pushes it out of the way and gets his mouth on Dean's stomach. Runs his tongue over the dips and curves of straining muscle, tasting the salt of Dean's skin. He bites at the arch of Dean's ribs, keeps his mouth busy so he doesn't have to think too hard about the fact that he's attacking his brother's belt buckle -- clink of metal, slap of old leather -- or that he wants more skin, he needs it.

Dean realises what Sam's doing and his hips buck up again, seeking out connection, but he's already pushing with his heels, trying to slide out and away. There's no sound but Sam hears him say, clear as day, "No, no, no, Sammy, don't, we can't, we--" as his hands grab at Sam's shirt, yanking at the material hard enough that Sam can hear stitches ripping and it pulls sharply against the soft skin under his arms, but Sam doesn't let up.

He can't.

He needs this. Needs something to hold on to. He grabs at Dean's wrists and holds them, just holds them tight and sure until Dean stops fighting him. He whispers little shushing sounds against the low curve of Dean's stomach. "S'okay, don't worry, just let me, just..." He watches his words raise gooseflesh and breeze through the dark hair that trails down from Dean's bellybutton to disappear into his shorts.

Sam can feel it when Dean surrenders. Dean surrenders and turns away, as far as he can go, not helping Sam divest him of his jeans, but not stopping him either. Sam stares for a second when he sees Dean's cock, flushed blood-red and angry, and twitching against his stomach. Sam's mouth floods with saliva and he has to swallow it away.

Dean cries out when Sam sucks him down, a startled little plea, wordless in its intensity. Sam runs his tongue up the length of Dean's dick, root to tip, opens wide and makes it good, tonguing and sucking and tasting, gripping the base with his hand, moving it in time with his mouth, wanting to touch all of Dean at once. He slides a hand up Dean's chest, greedy for skin, back down to palm the muscle of his thigh, glancing up to see Dean biting down on his own lip, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes.

Sam slips his thumb into his mouth beside Dean's cock, gets it good and wet, and slides it behind Dean's balls, smoothing and teasing, but this only makes Dean jolt and try and wriggle away from him again, so Sam hooks an arm around Dean's thigh to hold him in place. He ends up with Dean's heel pressing heavy on his kidney, but he barely feels it. Sam wants to do this, wants the weight and flavour on his tongue, wants to make Dean fall apart. He wants Dean's come in his mouth, wants it so much it scares him a little.

Dean arches up, gasps and shudders. He claws at the carpet with one hand, like he's holding on for his life, keeps the other arm thrown over his face. He pulses in Sam's mouth, that telltale little throb only making Sam suck harder, and Dean comes with this desperate keening sound, his legs kicking out, heels skidding over the carpet, his body arching right off the floor. Sam swallows and chokes and swallows, working Dean through it, feeling every shudder, every twitch, relishing every sound Dean makes.

The only sound in the room is their harsh breathing. Sam rests his head on Dean's hip, his bangs damp with sweat, feeling it as Dean slowly comes back to himself, and for a second, just a second, Dean's fingers smooth over Sam's hair.

Dean collapses into himself and the moment is over.

Dean throws Sam off. He gets up and staggers, his knees unpredictable, and tucks himself back into his jeans with shaking hands. He looks down at Sam, his eyes shining bright and horrified, and he runs. Dean runs right out into the lazy afternoon sunshine, leaving the door swinging open behind him, leaving Sam hard and flushed and very alone in the middle of the floor, completely miserable, the taste of his brother's come still heavy on his tongue.

---

It's three weeks before Dean touches him again.

---

Sam's been with Ruby again. He can still feel the grit of sulphur on the pads of his fingers. He's still suffering the occasional twitch of hysteria. Sam's been with Ruby, and it was bad this time. She's been different since their little run-in with Tammi, since the demon wearing Tammi's body let the cat out of the bag about Ruby's past. Ruby's trying harder to be a demon now, like she's got something to prove. Her eyes always shine black at him, just another nifty little demon trick she can use to her advantage, sometimes using it as a shield, sometimes as a warning sign. She's always in his face, saying the same old things, but now it seems annoying him and dangling Dean's salvation like a carrot isn't enough for her. Now she invites him. To fight, to fuck, to be like her, it doesn't seem to matter. Sam's been with Ruby. It's a secret, one he's pretty sure Dean is going to be able to see right through.

He comes back to the motel room he's sharing with Dean -- another little room in another little town -- and he's shaken. His knuckles are bruised and raw, his clothes still damp in places with holy water, vicious scratch marks down his back where she'd torn right through his t-shirt, finger-shaped bruises decorating his throat. He still has a vivid sense memory of how it felt when she'd sat on his chest, perched like a bird, her hair tickling his face, her delicate little fingers clamped down hard around his straining throat, sliding in his sweat. He's lost count of the number of times he's been in that position. It never gets any less painful, or any less terrifying when his throat burns like fire, when his lungs start screaming for oxygen, or when those warning spots start dancing in front of his vision, heralding the beginning of the end.

All of this is nothing in comparison with what he did to Ruby in return. She's been trying to prime him for months now, trying to prepare him for some war he doesn't want to fight, hasn't ever wanted to fight, and now that she's finally getting what she wants, now he's becoming what they all need, she's shocked. She's frightened.

Ruby has always been his best chance at finding an answer, but he's grown tired of waiting for her to come to him, tired of playing by her rules. So Sam stepped up his game, stopped playing defence, and he got his awful truth out of her. He has his answers, whatever good they'll do him. In the end, that's all that matters.

Dean is asleep on top of the covers, slumped down low, the light from some old western on the television flickering over his face. He wakes up when Sam touches light fingers to the toe of his boot, his whole body giving a little jolt. He licks his lips a couple of times and struggles up onto his elbows.

Sam grunts his hello but doesn't meet Dean's eyes.

The bare bulb in the bathroom makes him wince; its buzzing doesn't help his headache. He pulls his ruined shirt over his head and stares at himself in the mirror, twisting to see the damage done to his back. Long gouges trail over his shoulders, down the line of his back, four lines by four lines. But this is nothing. Sam's suffered much worse in the past.

There's movement in the mirror, and Sam catches Dean standing behind him, staring with tired, sad eyes at Sam's back. Dean doesn't look directly at him, doesn't say anything. He does his communicating with his hands, touching his fingertips to the bruises on Sam's throat, and Sam's breath catches with every careful unspoken question against his skin. Dean takes hold of Sam's upper arms, turning him into the light, brushing the lightest of touches across that spot on Sam's back that still aches sometimes. That spot low down, slashing right across his spine. The faint line of scar tissue that Sam hates, that he's ashamed of. It hardly seems enough, considering all the damage done in its wake.

"Did she do this to you?" Dean asks, his voice still rough with sleep. "Did you let her do this to you?"

Sam ducks his head. "It's not what you think."

"You have no idea what I think, Sam. Tell me. Did she do this?"

Sam knows what this must look like. He keeps his head bowed, his body language neutral, lets Dean examine him, but he keeps right on turning into Dean's space, gets in close, and for the first time in a long time he feels like the smaller one. They haven't made eye contact, but Sam nudges into Dean's body, wanting so badly for his brother to keep on doing what he's doing, for Dean to not abandon him to this alone, whatever 'this' turns out to be. Dean glances at them over Sam's shoulder in the mirror, and like that, he can look to his heart's content. Like that, it's safer.

"Dean," Sam murmurs, his voice low and crackling like a scratched record. "Dean, I want to--"

"Sammy, no. No. There isn't--"

Sam catches him in a kiss, because he needs this. Hasn't Dean figured out how badly Sam needs this? Dean breathes sharply through his nose, like he wasn't expecting it, but he goes with it, and just for a second his hands are on Sam's face, trembling and holding him like he's delicate. His tongue brushes Sam's, wet against his lips. He tastes like sleep and a little like beer, and Sam sighs into it, his whole body relaxing.

All too soon Dean's yanking away, pulling Sam out of the bathroom, the two of them stumbling over their own feet. Dean pushes him down on the bed still warm from Dean's body-heat, the cheap motel sheets rough against Sam's injured back. His heart is beating wildly and he wants to be close to Dean, can't cope with not being close to him, no matter how fucked up it is. He tries to pull Dean down onto the bed with him, but Dean twists away out of reach, instead dropping to his knees between Sam's thighs, surprising the hell out of Sam. A split-second of uncertainty crosses his features, but he grits his teeth, and hooks his arms under Sam's thighs, tugging Sam back down the bed. Sam's arm catches the bedside lamp and it goes crashing to the floor.

For a second Sam is blind, lost in the dark. But Dean's hands are on him, warm and familiar, smoothing over his stomach, straying to the buttons of his jeans, petting and reassuring and bolder than Sam could ever have suspected. Dean gets a hand inside his shorts and starts fisting him. Long, hard strokes, no preamble, no "getting to know you" niceties, just sure and hot and fuck. Sam gapes blindly at the ceiling, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.

Dean is half off the bed, on his knees on the floor, leaning forward between Sam's thighs. His mouth is hot and wet against Sam's hip, teeth catching on skin, tongue dabbing little spots of soft heat, his forehead rolling slowly on Sam's hipbone.

"Sam? Sam, tell me," Dean says, his voice low in the dark.

Sam can barely get it together enough to breathe, never mind work out what Dean's talking about. He tries to struggle up onto his elbows, but Dean lays a hand on the centre of his chest, pinning him to the bed.

"Tell me what you did with her. I want to know."

"God." Sam tips his head back, stretching out his neck and shifts his hips against the mattress. Dean never stops working him, his grip tight, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. "Nothing," Sam says. "It was nothing."

"Don't try and feed me that bullshit, Sammy." Light is bleeding in from the parking lot outside, enough that now Sam's eyes have adjusted and he can just make out the faint outline of Dean's face. Dean's expression is twisted, a little desperate. "You really gonna sit there and make me pout and whine at you like a jealous girlfriend? Just fucking tell me what you were doing with that demon bitch. I want to make sure you're not doing something stupid."

"I told you it was nothing."

"And I don't believe you."

"Dean... Dean, god, please..." Sam reaches for him, feels gelled spikes under his fingers, but Dean rears away at the touch.

"Sam. Tell me."

Dean's tongue flickers against the head of Sam's cock and Sam lets out a strangled moan. "I swear. I went there to talk. It was nothing. She said she couldn't help me."

"What did she tell you?"

"That... that there's no way to save you." The words tumble out, hateful and bitter and completely untrue.

Dean stops moving his hand, kneeling still and quiet at the foot of the bed.

"Dean, let me--"

Dean pulls back again out of Sam's reach, but the movement seems to have woken him, and he slowly slides his fist back up the length of Sam's cock.

"Anything else?" Dean asks.

"What? I don't--"

"Are you fucking this bitch?"

"No. Why would I... No, I swear, it's not like that."

"You lying to me?"

Sam remembers Ruby's hands around his throat; his whole existence narrowing down to each little breath she let him take. She'd been so bitter after what she saw as his betrayal of her, when he'd forced her to his will. He remembers her skin, mottled with bruises, and the way she ground her hips down against his erection. The way she smiled at him, thinking she'd regained a little ground, thinking she'd won when he flipped them, pinning her to the mattress, her eyes black and triumphant, and shining like mirrors, showing Sam everything he didn't want to see.

He remembers shoving away from her, telling her to stop when she tried to follow and watching smugly when she stopped dead, halfway across the room, furious and impotent.

He remembers walking out the door and not looking back.

"No," he says softly, meeting Dean's eyes. "I'm not lying."

Dean stares at him, weighing this up. Then he nods, just once. He leans in and runs his tongue over the head of Sam's cock and Sam bucks up against him, crying out. Dean gets a little braver, and takes Sam in his mouth. Lips and callused hands and wet and tongue, and it's hesitant and hot and god. Everything is white noise, blood rushing in Sam's ears, spots dancing in the blackness of his vision, and Sam comes with a hoarse yell, his throat hitching painfully, his lips forming a rolling D sound that he catches before it can become Dean's name.

Dean swallows everything he has to give, chokes a little, and Sam can feel droplets of come and saliva peppering his thighs. Dean's hands spread on Sam's hips, a reassuring weight. He pets and strokes, the lightest of touches, but as soon as Sam's breathing starts to calm, as soon as his body unwinds, his hands unclenching on the sheets and reaching out, Dean is pushing away, on his feet and across the room before Sam can form words. He slams the bathroom door behind him and Sam hears the shower start up.

Sam waits for a long time, blank and sated and worried, but he falls asleep before Dean comes back out. He dreams of red eyes and the coming storm.

---

It's hot as hell in the Impala, and Sam grits his teeth as soon as the weak little thought hits him, hating himself. He can't even think the word anymore without casting slanting glances at Dean, an automatic reflex, an urge to protect what's his. Dean's still right here, still in one piece. He's still safe and unharmed and still with Sam. Sam still has time to save him. Sam still has time to try.

Dean's slouched low in the passenger seat, his head rolling slowly with the dips and lifts of the road, the punishing sun high above them only just kept out of his closed eyes by the jagged line of shadow the roof casts across his face. Sam has the windows rolled down, because the AC has never really worked for shit, but all that does is move the dry, hot air around. His shirt is sticking to him, his jeans damp and tacky under his thighs against the leather upholstery. He's wearing Dean's sunglasses, and he totally gets it now why Dean has all those crinkles around his eyes from years of squinting out at long, burning strips of highway. Sam's head hurts, and his mouth is dry, but he doesn't want to stop. He just reaches blindly for one of the half-empty bottles of warm water rolling on the floor and makes do.

He's heard about a possible hellhound sighting in Nevada; it seems unlikely, but he's driving them straight across four states to check it out. They eat in rest stops, catch a couple of hours sleep in the car when he can't fight exhaustion any longer, and cruise the long strip of the westbound I-40. West, always west, inexorably west.

He's grumpy and way past tired, his headache a tight knot behind his eyes, pulsing in his temples. He's not really sure why he's pushing so hard, but he's determined to do this thing. He's driven most of the way with Dean sullen and drowsing in the passenger seat after Sam lost his temper a little, after his control slipped a little and he made damn sure that was one argument that he won, straight-out refusing to take no for an answer, because really, what was Dean going to do? Refuse to go with him? Split them up when every day they spend apart is a day they'll never get back? So Sam drives hard, and lets Dean sleep it all away, their argument already a rapidly fading memory in the rear-view.

Ruby's still out there somewhere, probably tailing a couple of hours behind. That's her style, but he's pretty sure he has her figured now. She's not as placid with him as she once was, not after he forced the truth out of her. It wasn't so hard, not once he'd figured out just how to ask. She'd hated that, screaming curses at him in ancient languages Sam only half understood, like her words were searing in her throat, the truth burning her worse than holy water. But it's too late now. Sam knows everything Ruby knows. He knows exactly what it means for Dean if he goes to Hell, the pain of that awful truth hitting so close to home it steals his breath, makes his throat burn with furious tears he refuses to shed and his chest fill with an ache there's no cure for.

He knows every evil thing she's ever done, and he can't say that he cares for her poor little lost girl memories of her humanity. She's still a demon, nothing changes that, and now she's got nothing left but to tag along. If nothing else, she's going to want to see how it all goes down.

The hellhound turns out to be a Black Dog, a complete waste of their time. Sam takes care of it quickly, after telling Dean to stay put in the car where it's safe. It's funny how wrong it feels, even though it's what Sam wants, when Dean just blinks a couple of times and agrees, like there's something off about the whole thing he can't quite put his finger on. He just agrees. He can barely keep his eyes open long enough to tell Sam to be careful before he's crashing again.

Sam wonders if maybe he's pushed too far too fast, but it's too late now. It's done, the Black Dog's dead and buried, and they're in Nevada. There's a shaman nearby, a reputable one, recommended by Bobby, and Sam figures it couldn't hurt to talk to him. He knows what he's up against, but he's not quite so arrogant to think that there's nothing to gain from a little more input. So he gets them a room for the night, planning to get some rest before going to see the shaman. If nothing else, he's tired of sleeping in the car.

They get a room at the far north end of the Sidewinder Motel. Two queens, and it's been a long, long time since that joke was even mildly amusing to either of them.

Dean wanders in, still drowsy, complaining about the long drive and too much sunshine. He throws his bag in the corner and lands face first on the nearest bed, mumbling something about coffee. Sam drops his bag at his feet, cracks the tension out of his neck, lifting his arms to make the most out of the blessed air conditioning, and just breathes for the first time in days. He keeps his eyes on Dean the whole time. When Dean settles and starts to snore, Sam crawls onto the bed beside him, smiling faintly when Dean grumbles in his sleep and flops over to give him space. Sam falls asleep with his nose pressed into Dean's hair, his arm slung around Dean's waist.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, Dean is under the covers on the other bed, his face turned to the wall.

It takes Sam a long time to get back to sleep.

---

There's coffee waiting for Sam when he wakes sometime after noon. It's lukewarm by the time he gets to it, but it still tastes good. Dean got it just the way he likes it and the jolt of caffeine is heaven-sent. The air in the room feels a little damp, like Dean's showered already.

Dean has the weapons bag out, working quietly, industriously, his hands moving easily over the knives and guns, sipping occasionally at his coffee and waiting for Sam to drag himself out of bed. Sam scratches at his scalp with both hands, swallows down half his coffee in one go then staggers to the shower, pulling off yesterday's rank t-shirt and kicking off his jeans before he's even made it to the bathroom.

Maybe, he thinks as he stands under the needle-hot spray, it's time. They're nearing the end of the road. Time to figure out his endgame. What he really wants to do is hide. Wants to live every day they have left together like it's Dean's birthday and Christmas and freaking Mardi Gras all rolled into one. He wants curl up into a ball and wish it all away, give this misery and responsibility and unwanted destiny to someone else, but he doesn't have that luxury. He's the one. Dean's not going to do shit to save himself, so it's all on Sam. Sam has to step up, because if he doesn't... if he fails...

He's not going to fail.

He just has to make sure that Dean doesn't figure out what he's up to and try to stop him. That part, at least, Sam's pretty sure he's got a handle on. That part, he's pretty sure Dean doesn't have a clue about. Ruby may have told Dean a little about what it really means to go to Hell, just enough to make him give up any last shred of hope. Enough, maybe, for Dean to sympathise with her, to help her in her crusade with Sam, but she didn't tell Dean everything she knows. Ruby may have thought she was masterfully playing brother against brother, making them dance like puppets in The Ruby Show, but Sam knows better. Sam's playing for keeps, and he's sure as hell not working to any demon's agenda.

He wanders back out with a towel around his waist, using another to rub at his hair, trying to ignore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Dean isn't looking at him again, choosing instead to fix his gaze pointedly on the weapons in his hands. He's either freaked by the fact that Sam's a little naked right now, or he's been sitting out here, quietly panicking about life, fraternal incest, the universe and everything, in a way that he'd deny with his very last breath. Sam turns his back, drops his towel and steps into his jeans. He doesn't have any clean underwear, and they're really going to have to do laundry soon as it hasn't exactly been high on Sam's list of priorities recently, and he's thinking that maybe they should--

He turns around, question dying on his tongue when he catches Dean looking at him. Dean's not looking directly at him -- there really hasn't been too much of that lately, not even when Dean knows Sam isn't paying attention, because Sam's too good at catching Dean out -- but looking at Sam's reflection. Their room has a huge mirror covering one wall, one of those flat, rectangular, bolted on deals. It's water-spotted around the edges, but it gives the impression that the room's far bigger than it actually is, and right now it's got all of Dean's attention.

Dean wants to look, Sam gets that. Dean's always been watching out for him, always kept one eye on him. But now that they've started down this path, now that they've maybe broken something irreparable, now it hurts him to look, like going blind from staring into the midday sun. Maybe that's what the problem is, this huge, unavoidable mirror giving Dean his ways and means, his temptation. Maybe that's the elephant in the room with them, which is really saying something, considering all the baggage they're carrying around with them right now.

Things have been way past strained for a while. They've spent a lot of time in silence, or talking about mundane things like food or pit stops or potential hunts. Once or twice Dean's tried broaching the subject about how Sam's supposed to cope when Dean's gone, though it's enough to make Sam laugh. He can't imagine driving, eating a meal, listening to music when Dean's gone, never mind trying to live. Never mind trying to keep on hunting. Never mind trying to win the war or give a damn about any of it -- but they haven't really talked, not really, not since... not since. Even all the arguing was better than this.

Dean's sneaking glances, but he won't meet Sam's eyes and Sam suddenly gets it, because Dean isn't ever going to let himself have this. He can't. Dean might go for it if Sam initiates things between them again, but Dean won't admit it to himself. Dean won't look Sam in the eye and say yes.

It's getting easier for Sam to manipulate Dean. A little suggestion here, a little nudge there. Dean has always been a sucker for giving Sam what he wants; it's just a question of knowing how to ask. Sam can't meet him head on, that's like running head first into a brick wall. Sam has to skirt around the edges. The puppy dog eyes work sometimes, but only up to a point. The real trick is to make Dean think it's his idea, that it's in Sam's best interest for Dean to give him exactly what Sam's wanted all along.

Sam doesn't think he's going to be able to play it that way this time around. Sam thinks, screw it. He's not in the mood for games.

He drops into a crouch between Dean's spread thighs and Dean sucks in a harsh breath, the hunting knife he was sharpening drawn back out of harm's way and dropped to the floor behind the old wicker armchair Dean's sitting in. Sam runs his hands up Dean's thighs and watches the emotions play over Dean's face.

"No," Dean says weakly. "Sam, we can't." Then, more forcefully, "No." He pushes Sam away hard enough that Sam sprawls inelegantly on his ass, the rough carpeting grazing his elbows. Dean doesn't leave the room, but he paces, agitated, a caged lion casting pained little glances in Sam's direction. He ends up turning his back, his arms folded tightly over his chest, tension radiating from him in waves.

Sam rolls to his feet and stands close to Dean, close enough to feel the heat from Dean's back against his bare chest.

"Why can't you just let us have this?" Sam asks. "Don't you think we've earned it?"

Dean only shifts his weight and folds his arms tighter over his chest, and Sam's had enough of this bullshit. Dean can deny and repress all he wants, but this thing between them, it's real and it's not going anywhere. He grabs Dean, one hand on Dean's shoulder, the other grabbing a wrist, and spins him around, pushing him face first against the huge mirror. Dean catches himself on his palms, his expression shocked and dismayed as he watches Sam's reflection snake its hands up over Dean's chest. Dean starts to try to struggle away, but Sam holds him tight.

"No. Watch this. I want you to watch."

"You're a sick little fuck, you know that?" Dean spits, but his voice is little more than a choked whisper.

"Maybe," Sam says calmly. "But we've been fucking around for months now, Dean."

"Twice," Dean says weakly. "It was only twice, Sam. Jesus."

"Months," Sam reiterates when Dean's mortified gaze meets his in the mirror. "I've been thinking about you like this for months," he says, softer this time, wondering if it's even true, wondering if it hasn't been a lot longer, because he can't even remember a time when he didn't look at Dean and feel eager and greedy, when his skin didn't get hot, when his stomach didn't clench with want. He starts to unbutton Dean's shirt, ignoring the way his hands are trembling.

"Sam," Dean says, starting to turn around, "I'm not even close to being--"

"Keep your hands on the glass."

Dean scowls, suddenly incredulous. "Are you serious? You really think I'm going to play along with this alpha male bullshit? Sam, you know that isn't how--"

"On the glass."

And Dean does it.

Sam gets a bare foot between Dean's boots and kicks lightly at them, and Dean spreads his legs a little, like Sam's about to search him. Dean's shirt hangs open, and Sam tucks his hand under Dean's t-shirt, flattens his palm wide over the low muscle of Dean's stomach, marvelling at the feel of him, at the warmth of soft skin. He slips his fingers under Dean's waistband and steps in, tugging Dean back against him, slow and inevitable, so Dean's ass is snug against his hips.

"Want this, Dean," he whispers in Dean's ear and he knows Dean is watching this. He kisses Dean's throat, glances up to see how his lips move on Dean's skin, and sees Dean is watching too. He looks a little horrified, like he wants to melt into it, like he couldn't look away if his life depended on it. "Can't stop thinking about it. I want us to..." Sam flexes his hips, slow and tight against Dean's ass, and feels the shudder roll through Dean.

"Fucked," Dean whispers, the word riding out on a hot little breath. "Sam. It's so fucked."

"Don't care." He kisses the side of Dean's throat like he'd kiss Dean's mouth, uses his tongue and his teeth, and starts undoing Dean's belt.

"We can't. This isn't... It's not how things are. It's not what we're supposed to do."

"Says who? Whose rules, Dean? Who gets to say how much you can love? Or who?" Dean's eyes widen. Sam didn't mean to say that. It just slipped out, and he knows how much it must have freaked Dean out. Sure he loves Dean, of course he does. Dean's his best friend. His big brother. All the shit they've been through together, the things they've done for each other, that's love like Sam's never known. He knows for a rock-solid fact that Dean loves him back, just as much. But they don't talk about it. They never have.

His hand slips into Dean's shorts and Dean's hard for him, blindingly hard, already wet at the tip. Dean groans, loud and obscene, his nails skittering reflexively on the glass, his knees buckling when Sam rubs his thumb through the moisture that's gathered, liquid silk against Dean's skin. Sam tightens his arm around Dean's waist and pulls him close, holding him up. "I want... I want to do this," Sam says, not sure where the words are coming from, just knowing that they have to be said. "There's no time, and I just... I just keep thinking. I just. It's... I need more of you."

Dean is silent for a long time. His chin wobbles and a single tear spills over his cheek and falls to splash against the backs of Sam's fingers. When Dean finally gets it together enough to speak, his voice trembles and cracks.

"Jesus, Sam. Jesus Christ. How much more do you think I have to give?"

Sam freezes, because oh, god. "No. No, it's not like that."

"Then what's it like? Tell me."

Sam turns him around slowly. He presses Dean's shoulders against the glass and holds him there, looks him right in the eye like he's daring Dean not to face this thing.

"I meant... I meant I can't help wanting more. I thought you... You never said no, Dean. You never told me to stop."

"I told you like a dozen times!"

"Not like you meant it. You never meant it."

"I didn't think you'd be one of those 'no means yes' guys."

"Dean--"

"Sam, I told you. I tried to say it, but I couldn't."

"Dean, this year, your deal, it's... I mean, that's not the only reason. I just need more. I need all of you. I want it all. With you. Do you understand what I mean?"

Dean stares, shell-shocked, like it's too much to take in. "What are you doing to me?"

Sam surprises himself by smiling. "What's it look like?"

Dean groans, but it's not entirely without humour. He lets his head fall back against the mirror and his hips slant up like an invitation. "No, man, not... I don't mean that." He licks his lips, rolls his head, like he can't get it together enough to think. "Not that. It's more..."

"Dean?"

Sam's caught by Dean's heavy-lidded gaze, solemn and curious. "Can't think when you're around, you know that?" Dean murmurs. "The things you do to me..."

"Dean?"

"We should never have started this."

"We should. We should. It's exactly what we should have done."

"No. We shouldn't. And it's more than that. You've been... Sammy, I couldn't get the words out. How was I supposed to tell you when you... You wouldn't let me."

Sam swallows past his guilt. "What are you talking about?"

"You know. You know exactly what I'm talking about. I couldn't even say it, Sam. I couldn't say anything. Did you do that to me?"

Sam clenches his jaw and he has to drop his gaze. He should have known Dean would figure him out. Dean's far from stupid.

Sam hadn't meant to that first time with Dean, he hadn't, but it was so much easier his way, and it didn't make that much difference, not really. It just... took some of the responsibility out of Dean's hands. That's all. Alleviated a little guilt. He'd just wanted it so much, and he knew that Dean did too, so if Dean couldn't argue, couldn't reason with him, couldn't speak to say the word "no"? What was the harm in that?

Sam was just making things easier.

"Like Andy, yeah?" Dean says. "That's a new one, little brother. And you've been making me sleep, right? Keeping me quiet? That's out of order, Sam. You don't pull that kind of shit with me. You don't get to do that. How long have you been holding out on me? Your abilities. They came back, right?"

Sam shrugs miserably, and glances up. "They never went away."

He wasn't supposed to tell. He hadn't meant to tell, but Dean asked and of all people Dean deserves the truth. As much of the truth is Sam able to give him.

"All this time? All this time you were..." Dean stares at him for a long time, hurt in his eyes. "I just... I just need to know you didn't... You didn't do something to me to make me want this, right? I mean, the way I think. That's all me, isn't it?"

"Yes! I would never get inside your head like that. I swear to you."

"Okay," Dean says. "Okay." He laughs bitterly and rubs a hand over his mouth. "I don't know if that's better or worse."

"I just thought it would make things easier if... if you couldn't argue."

"What? Like, just lie there and take it, you mean?"

"No! Not... I didn't even realise what I was doing, Dean, y'know? It just happened. Sometimes it just happens. I don't even realise what I'm doing if I'm... preoccupied. I don't realise sometimes that I'm affecting people, you know?" Sam pushes back his shoulders, uncomfortable, knowing how lame this all sounds. "And then we were... together." Sam searches his face, looking for understanding, hoping for forgiveness. He goes to touch Dean's face, but feels like somehow he's lost the right, and ends up skirting the air around Dean's jaw instead. "I just didn't want to stop. I couldn't."

Sam bites back on his tears, but they slip out anyway. He knows what he's capable of. Sometimes it scares him, but God help him, but sometimes he likes it. He's learning to control it, how to use it to his advantage. He's found there's a lot to be said for telling people to jump and having them smile brightly why they ask, "how high?" But he's been using it on Dean. Justifying it to himself a dozen different ways, but not stopping. And Dean's figured him out. So now he's left wondering, what does that make him? Why should he expect Dean to understand this?

"Sammy," Dean is murmuring, leaning in to him, and it's so familiar Sam's chest aches with it. It's bad dreams and scary monsters and crawling into bed beside his big brother because Dean isn't afraid of the dark. It's Lucky Charms and wanting to know where their mom is because the kids in school have been teasing him. It's going to bed hungry and growing pains and an amulet that Dean never, ever takes off. It's Dean driving him to the library because the rat trap of a motel they're staying in doesn't even have a table he can do his homework on. It's endless fights with dad and an acceptance letter with a Palo Alto postmark. And it's leaving Dean behind, watching him fade into the distance out the dirty back window of a bus heading west. It's Dean pulling him out of burning buildings. It's Yellow-Eyed Demons that Dean shoots in the heart. It's fatal knife wounds and Crossroad Demons. It's Dean saving him over and over and over, no matter what the cost. It's everything. It's his whole life. And Dean's always been there to protect him, to pick up the pieces. "Sammy," Dean says again. "Sammy, don't. Don't."

And Dean's kissing him. Dean's lips are soft and careful and his lips taste like tears. Sam falls into it, leans his whole body in and crushes Dean against the mirror. Dean's arms wrap around him, hold him close, and it's everything.

"What do you want me to do?" Sam asks, not stopping kissing Dean for even a second. "This time I want to hear you say it. I want you to be sure. Tell me."

"Want you to... Just want you, Sam," Dean says, his voice hoarse and low, his face crimson with his shame. "Do it slow. Make me feel it. I want you. I do. Shouldn't. Tried not to. I tried. But I do. Want you so bad."

"Dean, I--"

"Shut up, man. Just shut up. Why do you always have to-- I can't talk about this anymore. It's too much."

"Okay," Sam says softly. "Okay."

He pushes Dean's shirt off his shoulders, pulls his t-shirt over his head, Dean raising his arms like a child, the two of them collapsing back against the thick glass like there's no way they'd still be standing without its support.

Dean still can't look at him, so Sam turns him back around, does it slow, gives Dean every opportunity to say stop, keeps his hands on Dean's skin, petting, smoothing, reassuring. He gets Dean's hands back on the glass and Dean watches him, tense and unsure. Sam keeps him close, loses the rest of their clothes, wanting skin, wanting Dean, and it feels so good to see Dean's eyes flicker closed in the mirror, a little frown of concentration on his face, a hint of a smile mixed in there somewhere, leaning into it when Sam bites at his shoulders, palms Dean's hard cock and starts to fist him slowly, whisper soft, his touch light enough to tease.

He lays his cock on the crease of Dean's ass, makes Dean spread his legs a little more, and slips between them, skin too dry to really slide, just fitting snug and hot, bumping against Dean's asshole, and they both gasp when his cock catches there for a second before jerking forward to press in behind Dean's balls, making Dean gasp and stutter forward, his eyes flying open, his palms sliding on the glass, leaving streaks of sweat and condensation in their wake. He can't hold it, his arms shaking, and he drops forward onto his elbows, his forehead pressed tight against his fists, his breath fogging the glass.

"Sam," he says, his voice echoing a little in the space between his hands. "You done this before?"

"Some," Sam admits. "Not this exactly. I've never..." He rocks his hips a little and Dean sucks in a breath.

Sam's on board with going slow, making Dean feel it, but the last thing he wants to do is hurt him, so he glances across the room to where his bag's lying open on the bed and he holds out his hand. A bottle of hand lotion flies across the room and into Sam's waiting palm. There's no sense in pretending anymore, after all.

In the mirror, Dean watches all this with wide eyes. "Jesus. You weren't kidding."

"I wasn't kidding."

He slicks his fingers, warming the lotion, and slides one finger into Dean, watching his reaction closely in the mirror. Dean pushes back against him, making soft little sounds of need low in his throat, wordlessly asking for more. Sam works him with his fingers, loosening him up, getting him ready.

"Dean?"

"Do it, Sammy," Dean says breathlessly. "Jesus. Fuck. Just do it."

Sam's hands are shaking when he lines himself up and pushes inside, snakes an arm around Dean's chest and hooks over his shoulder, pulling Dean down onto him. It's slick and tight and completely perfect. They're both holding their breath as Sam slides in slow and the room is so quiet that he can hear the slick little cellophane sound of lotion sliding against skin.

He pauses when he's inside, deep as he can go. He's caught by the way they look together in the mirror, the contrast of Dean's pale skin against his, the flex of Dean's muscles as he reaches a hand up to curl his fingers in Sam's hair and scratch his nails over the nape of Sam's neck. It looks like Dean's lost it a little, his eyes unfocused, rolling his head on Sam's shoulder, skin flushed and slick with sweat, only just keeping it together enough to meet Sam's eye in the mirror.

"Dean. Dean, talk to me."

"No. No, I can't. Don't make me."

Sam isn't normally one for a lot of conversation in the bedroom, but this isn't exactly a normal, everyday occurrence for either of them. "I won't. I won't make you, I swear. I won't make you do anything. Just. Please. Dean. Tell me it's good. Tell me you want it."

"I... Sam. I can't."

"Dean. Dean, please."

Dean closes his eyes. "I can't talk you through this like you're a... Like we're..."

"Please. I need you to. I have to know."

"Okay, Sammy. Okay. I, I didn't..."

"Dean?"

"I didn't know. I didn't."

"Didn't know what?" Sam prompts.

"Didn't know it'd be so good." Dean opens his eyes. "I never did this before either."

Sam's helpless, caught in Dean's eyes, and he doesn't even move again but he's coming, losing it completely, his whole body shuddering, buried deep as he can go inside Dean.

Dean gives him a shaky little grin. "Knew I'd outlast you, junior."

Sam laughs, and it's sweet relief, breaking the unbearable tension in the room. He pulls out carefully, and he can't hold them up any longer. They fall back onto the bed, kissing and kissing and kissing.

"Just... give me a second," Sam says. "Want to... want to make you feel..."

Dean nods like he doesn't even care just so long as they're touching everywhere, Sam's huge hand wrapped around him, Sam's mouth on his skin. Dean gets a little frantic, greedy for whatever parts of Sam he can reach, grinding against his thigh.

"Anything. Anything you want, Sammy," he's muttering, verging on babbling. "You know that. Doesn't matter what I say. Ignore me. Anything you need."

Sam almost wants to laugh again, a different kind of laughter, and not the good kind, because Dean's talking about need. Talking about giving himself up again. Their need is a two way street, they're bound together now. The things they've done for each other, to each other? Binds them together tighter than blood, tighter than love, tighter than immortal souls. That's how Sam feels. Dean should know that. But he doesn't want Dean to do this out of a sense of obligation. Sam would rather never touch him again than know that Dean was only doing this because Sam wanted it. Like Dean has nothing left to lose.

How could he not want this? Now that he's had it, Sam can't imagine ever living without it.

"You can," Dean is saying. "Anything you want."

Sam holds him at arm's length and Dean's confusion is obvious. "Don't offer yourself to me. I mean it, Dean. This is the same thing. The same exact thing. You still think I'm forcing you, except you're giving yourself up for it now? You think I'd really want that? You got some kind of martyr complex? Why are you always sacrificing yourself for me?" It's clearly not the reaction Dean was expecting. "Just... Just do what you want to do, okay? I don't want you doing anything else just for me. It hurts too much."

Sam levels his jaw and waits it out, waits to see what Dean will do. Dean looks down their bodies, palms the dip of muscle over Sam's breastbone. Sam's breath catches, but he lies still and lets Dean have his way.

Dean says quietly, "You know what I want. I'm here, aren't I?" He snorts, short and humourless when Sam doesn't respond. "Should've known you'd be just as much of a bitch in the sack." He shakes his head. "Listen to me, Sam. You can... you can look if you don't believe me. Read my mind or whatever. You can do that, right? Or, y'know, use your freaky Jedi mind tricks and tell me to tell you. Whatever it takes."

Sam smiles and shakes his head. "I don't need to do that."

"No?"

"No," Sam says. "Last time I was inside your head, I got tied to the ground and smacked around with a baseball bat. It's freaky in there." He knows it's the right answer when Dean chuckles and pushes him onto his back, kissing him.

Dean slides his thigh between Sam's legs, his cock hard against Sam's hip and Sam feels his own twitch in response. Sam can't stop touching him, running his hands over every inch of Dean's skin, mapping the threads of old scars and the solid weight of lean muscle, learning how to touch Dean. He discovers that he likes it when he makes Dean gasp and groan and swear, but it's better when he makes Dean blush and stammer, grabbing desperately, staring at Sam like he doesn't trust himself to be here, doing this.

He could kiss Dean's mouth forever, swallowing down the taste of him, keeping him in close. Sam groans when Dean bites at his throat and thumbs his nipple, feeling it everywhere. Dean is strong against him, eager and wanting, and he doesn't let up until Sam's hard again, until he's desperate for it. Dean hitches his legs up and around Sam's waist, nudging against him, urging him back inside. They cling together, giving up on kissing when it's more coordination than they can handle, Sam making shallow thrusts, keeping himself as deep inside Dean as he can.

Dean steals all the sheets and makes Sam sleep in the wet spot. Sam's too tired to care. He falls asleep with Dean's face pressed into his throat, their legs tangled together, the sound of Dean's breathing, slow and steady in his ear.

---

The shaman's good, a wise man, but he doesn't tell Sam anything he doesn't already know. There's a very dark power rising in the west. A new leader. Someone to be reckoned with. Someone who clawed their way out of Hell itself on the shoulders of lesser demons. Someone with a mission. Someone who has been biding their time on Earth ever since. Someone strong enough to end it all. Someone who's been looking for Samuel Winchester. Waiting to welcome him into the fold or snuff out his life; Sam's choice. Someone who knows all about the Colt and all the ways around it. Someone who knows all about Sam's abilities.

Someone who holds the contract on Dean's soul.

All Sam has to do is take him out and not end up dead in the process.

They stay in the motel for another week, the two of them spending their time learning each other, fucking on every available surface, taking showers together to get clean only to get carried away and dirtied up all over again.

They haven't worked a case in over a month and Dean's stopped bringing it up. He sleeps a lot of the time, catnaps all through the day and night. He's sometimes agitated, jittery on far too much coffee, too much going on in his head. Often he's a little frantic in how much he needs Sam -- his body, his conversation, his attention -- but one word from Sam, and Dean's content to curl around his brother, lay his head on Sam's chest and sleep the hours away. Sam likes having Dean there, under his hands, peaceful and safe.

Dean seems happier to go with what Sam wants. He hasn't questioned him again on the issue. The one time Sam's temper frayed and he barked words with a power behind them he didn't mean, Dean just rolled with it, shrugging it off when Sam immediately backed off and apologised. Dean trusts him, Sam realises, real trust, and this is maybe how he's showing him. Dean doesn't question him, doesn't preach to him about the dangers of accepting his abilities, or of embracing them. Like some of the responsibility has been taken out of his hands after all, and honestly, Sam's not sure if some of that is his doing. If Dean's picking up on Sam's thoughts and desires even if Sam doesn't realise he's doing it.

Sam would like to think that maybe Dean's hoping Sam will be able to save him. Dean won't let himself help in any way because that contravenes the terms of Crossroad Demon's deal, but Sam clings to the thought that Dean at least believes he's worth saving. That he's willing to let Sam try.

Dean doesn't ask Sam again if Sam's been messing with his thoughts. And Sam hasn't. He hasn't made Dean do a thing he didn't want to. He's just making Dean a little more... compliant about certain things. That's all. Sam hates to justify it to himself by saying things like, "it's for his own good" or "the end justifies the means" but clichés are clichés for a reason, after all. He knows it'll be different after. After they get through this. He knows Dean'll be more like himself again. He knows they'll still have problems, but it'll be their problems, just the two of them, not soul-destroying, world-ending problems. Just Sam and Dean. Once they get past this. Once they're sure they have a future, then Sam can spend the rest of his life making it up to Dean.

Dean gains confidence every time they're together. He's started to tell Sam things of his own accord, hot, filthy little things slipping out when they're in the moment, whispered in Sam's ear, licked against his skin. Sam still has to make the first move, has to lure Dean into the moment, but Dean doesn't resist quite so hard. Doesn't say "no" nearly so often.

They have arguments and setbacks, spending all of their fifth day at the motel not touching each other, sleeping that night in separate beds. Sam crawls in beside Dean at four in the morning, neither of them able to sleep. Dean turns around to meet him halfway and pulls him in close.

Once or twice endearments slip out when Dean's buried deep inside Sam -- it took him all of three days to start bitching about how come they weren't taking turns when it came to dicks in asses, making his point when he had Sam's legs over his shoulders, his tongue in Sam's ass, Sam nearly in tears from how badly he wanted to come, so if nothing else Dean knows how to pick his moments. Dean's done a couple of things to him that Sam's pretty sure are illegal in several states, but that make him come so hard and so often that at one point he forgets his own name.

It's a good week, but they can't stay hidden forever.

On the morning of the tenth day, he leaves Dean sleeping. Sam lies beside him for a couple of hours, running his fingers through Dean's hair, smoothing over his skin, counting his freckles, just watching him sleep. He talks to Dean, whispering secrets and memories from their childhood in Dean's ear. Happy memories. Ones that make him smile. He tells Dean he wishes he could remember more of their mother, more than just faded photographs and a few cryptic words shared with her ghost. He talks about their father, talks of happier times when they were still together, still a family, before everything started to fall apart.

He tells Dean he's not sorry about any of it. That he'd do it all again, every second of it, so long as it meant they'd end up together. He carves pentagrams into every corner of the room, and draws every protective sigil he can think of on the walls. Thick lines of salt and goofer dust line the doors and windows by the time he's done.

He tells Dean he loves him. He tells Dean he'll be back in a few days and he kisses him goodbye.

He leaves Dean sleeping. Where he's going, he's going alone. He knows Dean would do anything for him, give anything for him, but Sam's going to face down the one person Dean won't let him touch. The one person that could twist Dean up inside because of the power he holds over the Winchester family. Sam holds no such compunction. Dean's contract is Sam's only focus now. It has to be.

Dean swore that he'd try and stop Sam if Sam messed with his deal, so Sam just has to take him out of the equation because there's no way he's not going to fight with his last breath to save Dean from this deal. There are too many reasons why letting Dean know what he's about to do would spell disaster. Dean loves him, Sam's more sure of that than anything else on Earth, but this is something Sam has to do alone.

Even if Dean wakes up -- which he won't, not until Sam comes back or Sam fails. And if Sam fails...

He's not going to fail.

Even if Dean wakes up, Sam hasn't left any clues. Sam hasn't written anything down, so there's nothing for Dean to find. Sam stopped trying to find his answer in the written word a while back. Demons have big mouths. They like to boast. They like to spin tales. Everything else, all their dirty little secrets, their aces in the hole, it was all right there, all he had to do was peek inside their heads and take what he needed. He got most of it from Ruby. The rest is all instinct and birthright. Sam knows what he's facing. He's ready for it.

He steps outside into the morning sunshine, and Ruby's waiting for him, standing in the middle of the motel parking lot, her hip cocked like he owes her something.

"Hiding in some fleapit motel isn't going to get you very far, Sammy. No matter how well you cover your tracks."

"I'm not hiding," Sam says, already striding past her.

"He's waiting for you, you know."

Sam stops, but doesn't turn around. "Where is he?"

"Can't you feel him?" She likes this, he can tell. Likes to think there's something he still needs from her.

Sam closes his eyes, stretches his senses. There are the usual jostling, dark smudges of demons, circling, always circling, Ruby the only one nearby, but there's something... Like a fire on the horizon, a white hot pinpoint of hellfire.

"He's waiting," she sing-songs. "And you better be ready for him, because if you're not, you'll be going into the pit right alongside Dean. You won't like it there, Sammy. There's a lot of demons down there want a piece of you. Several pieces if they can manage it."

Sam closes his eyes and smiles. "Why did you tell Dean there was no way to save him?"

"Because it's the truth."

"The truth?" Sam rolls his eyes and turns around to face her. Demons lie. Ruby's no different. In fact, she's worse. No other demon he's ever met has tried to pretend they were anything other than what they were. Hellspawn. Evil, through and through. But Ruby, poor lost little Ruby, stuck in the middle, trying to play both sides. She's worse. "Wrong answer, Ruby. Try again."

Ruby folds her arms over her chest. "Because you don't stand a chance in hell of saving him. And that's the truth."

"You really think so." He's curious, but it isn't a question.

"I know you, Sam. I know what you're up against. Oh, I know you're going to try, but you won't be able to kill him. You're no match for him. You haven't got it in you." She leans in. "Now you tell me: am I lying?"

Killing her is almost too easy. It's a good test for what's to come.

He doesn't use the Colt. Doesn't use Latin or magic or incantations. He just lets the power come, opens himself up to it, embraces it like he never has done before. He watches, outside of himself, as Ruby pulls out her fancy blade and examines it calmly, sunlight glinting off its edge. Sam watches her stab the blade into her own chest and crumple to the ground. He's turning away before the impressive little lightshow of a dying demon is over, before the smoke hissing from the wound has dissipated. Sam just fixes his collar and walks away. He's learned everything he needs to learn, she had nothing more to offer him. It all makes sense now. Switches have been flipping for a while, one by one by one. So fast recently it's exhilarating. So fast now it's frightening.

The Impala rumbles when he starts her up. She feels good under his hands. It feels like Dean's with him, watching over him.

Dean's given enough. Sam's not going to let torture be heaped on top of torture. Fire and brimstone would be bad enough, unimaginable torment, but he's not about to let Dean become one of the evil things they've spent a lifetime hunting; one of the evil things that ruined their lives before they even had a chance to really start.

Sam gets it now. Thinks maybe this isn't how it should be going down, that he shouldn't be taking the choice out of Dean's hands like this, but then Dean made his choice on that dark night, almost a year ago, standing at the crossroads. Dean made his deal, and all this is necessary now. Dean started it and this is how Sam's going to finish it.

All he has to do is kill the demon who holds the contract and Dean goes free. No contest.

It's nightfall when Sam finds him. A rundown bar on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere that reminds him a little of Harvelle's Roadhouse. There isn't another living soul for miles and the whole place reeks of death.

There's a dark figure standing at the bar with his back to Sam, glass of whiskey in his hand, a shock of thick, dark hair shot through with grey. At Sam's approach, the man turns around to face him. Sam doesn't recognise the face, but the smile of welcome is unmistakeable.

"Sam," the demon says warmly. "It's good to see you. I've been waiting for you, son."

Sam smiles sadly. "Hi, dad. Been a while."

His father returns the smile, wide and proud, his eyes the violent crimson of old blood, and he holds out his arms like he's welcoming home the prodigal son.

Sam keeps walking forward, hands loose and ready at his sides. He's going to do this for Dean and he's not going to fail.

This is the way it balances out.

The end.

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